


Desperation

by inusagi



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s02e13 Exit Wounds, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is desperate. Post-Exit Wounds. Day 9 of the TW-July one shot challenge. Oneshot. Complete. M for a reason!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m just splashing in RTD’s puddle. 
> 
> A/N: So, I’ve been writing these just fine, but FF dot net has been giving me upload problems. I think it’s resolved now, so I’ll be uploading three stories tonight (Days 9 and 10, plus an unrelated oneshot) and then tomorrow, if there’s no issues, I’ll be uploading the rest.

Jack tasted of dirt and smelled of blood. _Tosh’s blood_.

 Ianto pushed the thought out of his mind while he pushed Jack’s clothes from his trembling shoulders and pressed a small kiss to his forehead.

The sleeves, stiff with dried blood, were hard to remove. In the end, Ianto tore them. No dry cleaner in the world would be able to clean them and he very much doubted Jack would want to wear the clothes he was buried in again.

As he got the shower running, he absently wondered how Jack’s clothes even survived having been buried for…however long he was down there. Ianto reckoned it must have something to do with Jack’s…uniqueness and left it at that. He didn’t really care about Jack’s ratty old clothes. He didn’t even care about his own ruined suit.

He wasn’t sure he cared about anything at that moment. He was felt…numb.

Once the water was warm enough, he pulled Jack in with him. Mud rolled off of him in waves, swirling and disappearing in waves. He scrubbed Jack clean, doing his best to wash away the centuries of horror and the overwhelming grief that threatened to swallow them both.

He had to wash Jack’s hair six times before the water ran clear.

The entire time, Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even open his eyes. But in the millisecond it took to for Ianto to pronounce him clean, a switch was flipped.  The older man pushed him up against the tiled wall, one hand holding Ianto by the hair, the other gripping a pale hip tight enough that he’d surely bruise.

Ianto almost told his lover that this was not the time, to remind him that Cardiff was in shambles and needed them to pick up the pieces. That they had to put Tosh in the cryo-chamber, do the awful bit of packing and the final sign-outs for their fallen comrades. That Gray was still in the corridor, restrained and unconscious and that tosser John Hart was just wandering around the Hub, completely unwatched.

But then Jack’s lips captured his own, rough and desperate. All Ianto could taste was dirt. The subtle scents and flavors he’d come to associate with his lover were completely gone, replaced by the stale taste of earth.

It struck him in that moment that Jack—the same Jack who could not spend a couple hours without pulling someone in for a hug or a pat on the back—hadn’t really been touched for thousands and thousands of years.

And Ianto could no longer deny Jack anything at all.

Jack must have felt him yield, because he was unceremoniously flipped around, face-first into the wet tile. Jack pressed his hips into Ianto’s arse, grinding his erection into him until they were both panting.

“Please…I…I _need_ …” choked Jack, voice rough.

Ianto turned his head, claiming Jack’s lips over his shoulder for another earthy kiss and pressed back against the captain.

He knew it’d ache, with only the cooling water as lube, and it did. He found, though, as Jack pounded hungrily into him, that he needed it just as much as the other man did. After the fear and the frustration and the grief of the day, he needed to feel alive. He needed Jack.

On any other day, the time it took for them to finish would have been embarrassing to the extreme, but it wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about pleasure.

It was about connection.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 2.0: The word for this story was “desperate.”


End file.
